Don’t think about her. Don’t look at her. Don’t embarrass yourself any further. And for Celestia’s sake, keep your mouth shut. Talking will just make things worse.


These are the things I think when I see Rarity. At least, ever since last night at the Gala.  


Despite myself, I picture her smile, that small upturn in her lips, giving the poise and elegance of a refined mare, yet with all the warmth of an eager young filly. Those soft, plush, and eager lips, with seductive, expectant eyes. I sneak a peek at her as she trots by. The smile is gone.


Yet another luxury lost to my own arrogance.


There is no “Hello, Prince Blueblood” when she passes, not even a slight nod in my direction. She makes every effort to avoid looking my way. For a brief moment, perhaps, she casts her gaze my way, but it is just as quickly withdrawn. No doubt with contempt. I can’t say I blame her.


My legs begin to shake. In trying times like these, I can’t help it. I want to call after her, say I’m sorry, and beg her forgiveness, but I stay rooted in place. My mouth opens, but no words come out. I wouldn’t know what to say anyways. Mother never taught me how to talk to mares my age. 


Nobody did.


Mother spent thousands upon thousands of bits ensuring I get the best education in all of Equestria, but I still can’t have a plain talk with a nice mare without making a fool of myself. Mother said the mares would come easy to me, what with my wealth, good looks, and nobility. But they don’t. They don’t like me. They don’t want to be around me. 


Mother lied.


Rarity must think nothing more of me than a pauper. In fact, lowlier than a pauper, for at least a pauper may have a disposition she fancies. I am a disgusting pig rolling in its own filth since birth, and I don’t know how to stop. Nobody wants to be around me because of how I am. Mother said I should just be myself, and ponies will like me. But the pony I am, nobody likes.


Rarity heads up to the castle gates, and my glance follows her. I try to muster all of my wherewithal to come forward and apologize. To say something nice like, “I regret how I acted last night” or “I’m sorry I was such a jerk” like they do in those stage plays I’ve seen. Truth be told, I don’t know what I’ll say, but I want to say it. For once in my life.


“Rar—”


She turns immediately, shooting me a white-hot glare full of disdain. It's that kind of petrifying gaze that makes you feel like a hole is being bored through your stomach.


My words fizzle and die in my mouth, leaving only an acrid aftertaste as I clamp my mouth shut. I take a step back and look away, pretending as if I hadn't said anything. 


She turns back towards the castle gate without a second thought. The innumerable gears of the gate creak and churn while it slowly raises. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, knowing she can’t hear me. I kick the dirt. I should have just kept my mouth shut. I only make things worse. 

She enters the castle and doesn't look back.